


Your Remember Where The Heart Is?

by Black_Hole_of_Procrastination



Series: The She-Wolf & The Hound [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Family, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 16:30:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1864653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination/pseuds/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His good strong wife, who had survived all the hells of this world, was dying. She was bleeding out in their bed. And where was he? Holed up in the stables like a craven dog with a fuzzy head and a belly full of sour red. One-shot. (Rating for language)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Remember Where The Heart Is?

**Author's Note:**

> No idea where this fic came from, and I know this is a super odd pairing. What can I say? The dynamic between Arya and the Hound is too fun to write. After the season 4 finale, I wanted to imagine a future where the Gravedigger theory holds and their paths cross again. This is set after the events of the books & series (so adult Arya). Rating for language. Let me know if you’re interested in seeing more Arya/Hound fics.

He is outside the room at first, waiting, as that fucking direwolf of hers paces the length of the corridor. 

There is something familiar about it that rubs him raw. He had spent half of his life posted outside doors; guarding Lannister cunts and ignoring what mischief lay beyond the threshold. But this time it wasn’t one of Joffrey’s whores crying out from behind the door. It was _her_. 

Many women died in the birthing bed (for fuck’s sake, his own mother had died bringing his sister into this miserable shit word). And yet, the possibility that _she_ would meet the same fate—she who cheated death, who laughed at death, who _served_ death—had not ever occurred to him. 

When the butcher of a maester comes out into the corridor, hands bloodied, Sandor’s own blood runs cold. 

He should have listened to her little lordling brother and left her at Winterfell. At least there would be a proper maester, not this green boy, barely out of the Citadel, who knew more of easing men out of this world then bringing them into it. 

The maester is a brave one, he’ll give him that. He hardly flinches as he explains in a measured voice: 

“There are complications. The Lady Clegane and the babe may not both survive the birth.” 

Numbness gives way to anger. Sandor grabs the little shit by the scruff of the neck, his maester chains swinging wildly as he’s pinned to the wall. 

“Whatever that stubborn bitch told you, forget it. If it comes to her or the babe, you bloody well save _her_ , or there will be no place in the seven hells you’ll be safe from me.”

Sandor drops the boy to the ground and heads for the stables, grabbing two wineskins from the kitchens on his way.

Howls of pain echo off the walls of the keep, each cry more piercing than the next.  

His good strong wife, who had survived all the hells of this world, was dying. She was bleeding out in their bed. And where was he? Holed up in the stables like a craven dog with a fuzzy head and a belly full of sour red.

Another scream breaks through the night, loud and clear across the yard. _His she-wolf certainly has a set of lungs on her_ , he thinks grimly. They probably could hear all the way to White Harbor. Some broken part of him is grateful for the screams. They are the only sign left to him that she lives. 

Sandor sinks against his destrier’s stall.

He would pray, but when had the seven fuckers ever listened to him? (Or her for that matter). Besides, this was more the work of her God of Death. Payment for the blood she had spilt. The blood he had spilt. The pair of them had brought enough death to this world. Mayhaps it was time they pay the price. The image of her cold and dead, her grey eyes empty, leaves him retching.

He should have never followed her North. He should have never gone to her bed. He should have never claimed her as his. It would have been better if she had plunged her ‘needle’ into him as he bled out on the road all those years ago. 

_“You remember where the heart is?”  
_

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes on a bed of hay and his own sick. The screams have stopped, but it brings him no comfort. The son of the keep’s steward hovers by the stable doors. He knows better then to venture too near a rabid dog. 

“Lady Clegane is asking for you, m’lord.” 

He wants to tell the lad to tell _Lady Clegane_ to go fuck herself. That he’ll not be summoned to bid her farewell. That he’ll not stand by to watch as she slips away. 

But he is still a loyal dog, and so obeys. 

She is deathly pale and covered in a sheen of sweat, but she is alive, and he’s never seen a sight as sweet. Large grey eyes meet his, before looking down at the bundle in her arms.

“Your son and heir, my lord,” she says, beaming with pride. 

Her voice breaks whatever spell has anchored him to the doorway and he crosses the room in two strides to kneel at her side. 

“I’ve named him Robb.” Of course she did. 

He finally looks at the babe in her arms. It is small, pink, and wrinkled, already with a patch of inky hair. _As ugly as his father_ , he thinks. The babe’s eyes open, a familiar grey. 

“I suppose he does have the look of a young wolf about him,” he says. 

Arya turns back to the babe, but not before he catches the pleased glint in her eye. 

“You can name the next pup,” she teases. 

Her words turn his blood cold. 

“There is not going to be a next pup,” he says, his voice quiet but firm.

“Don’t be stupid,” she says distractedly, fussing with the babe’s swaddling.

“You nearly died girl! Bled out in our own damn bed! You’ll not do it again.”

“So what? You’re never going to fuck me again?” she scoffs.

He looks at her—a flush returning to her cheek, a wicked gleam in her eye, his babe at her breast—she’s never been more lovely. He knows there will be no keeping from her bed.

“Of course I’m going to bloody well fuck you. We’ll just have to go about it carefully,” he concedes. “I’ll not bury you, girl.”

A small pale hand reaches forward, cradling the burned side of his face.

“All men must die.”

“Aye, and so you shall,” he says gruffly, pulling away from her touch. “But not until my bones have rested in the ground a good while. You understand me?” 

She studies his face. Whatever she finds there seems to take the fight out of her...for now. 

“Fine.” She shrugs. 

“Good.” 

Careful not to jostle mother or child, he joins them on the bed. Arya settles herself against his chest, tucking her head under his chin. 

“If I'm to be a widow for as long as all that, perhaps I should search for a paramour now. I hear Ser Podrick Payne has some surprising talents.” 

“Fuck Podrick Payne!” he growls, tightening his hold on her. 

She laughs. 

“That’s precisely what I propose to do.” 

He grasps her chin and turns her face, meeting her lips. She grins against his mouth before kissing him back. No, there definitely would be no keeping him from her bed. 

They part as little Robb begins to fuss, regaining his mother’s attentions. Sandor watches as Arya coos over the child. Their child. His _family_. 

“I love you.” 

He mumbles it against the crown of her head, quiet enough that she might not hear. From the way she stills in his arms, he knows that she has. 

They have been wed for more than a year, and yet neither has ever said it to the other. She’s not a maid for pretty songs or courtly praises. But as the words leave his mouth, he knows they are the truest he’s ever spoken. 

She eases back into his embrace. Her free hand finds his own and laces their fingers together. 

“Then you really are stupid.”


End file.
